


even you can't get under my skin (if i don't let you in)

by fakecharliebrown



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alcohol, Attempt at Humor, Bonding, Consent Issues, Drunkenness, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Nonbinary Hinata Shouyou, Nonbinary Kita Shinsuke, One Night Stands, Panic Attacks, Sakusa Kiyoomi is Bad at Feelings, because they were drunk, blink and u miss it 'atsumu is allergic to bananas' agenda, dont look at me, monumentally bad, nonbinary miya atsumu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29513205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakecharliebrown/pseuds/fakecharliebrown
Summary: Miya studies the ceiling tiles, their eyes darting between each and every groove in the cork-like material. “What d’ya think it woulda been like if we were on the same team?”Kiyoomi blinks. He didn’t expect Miya to ask something actually interesting; he’s always pegged Miya for a bit of a slob, a bit of a rube. “I don’t know,” he says. “We weren’t, so it doesn’t matter, does it?”or; Sakusa and Atsumu have a drunken one night stand, and it all seems to go downhill from there.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, blink and u miss it osakita
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60





	even you can't get under my skin (if i don't let you in)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vwritesaus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vwritesaus/gifts).



> title from skin by sabrina carpenter!

“Hey, Sakusa?” Miya Atsumu asks, after their last Nationals tournament in high school. Kiyoomi scowls, waiting for Motoya outside of the mens’ room while Miya waits for their twin brother.

“What do you want?” he grunts. 

Miya studies the ceiling tiles, their eyes darting between each and every groove in the cork-like material. “What d’ya think it woulda been like if we were on the same team?”

Kiyoomi blinks. He didn’t expect Miya to ask something actually interesting; he’s always pegged Miya for a bit of a slob, a bit of a rube. “I don’t know,” he says. “We weren’t, so it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“I s’pose,” Miya replies, humming softly. They look like they’re about to say something else, but Motoya exits the restroom at that moment, wrapping an arm around Kiyoomi’s shoulders and smiling brightly. 

“Ready to go find my parents?” he asks. Kiyoomi nods. He glances back over his shoulder at the spot where Miya lingers, their gaze locked on the ceiling.

His heart flips. Kiyoomi ignores it.

-

The first thing Kiyoomi finds out upon joining the MSBY Black Jackals is that he now shares a team with Miya Atsumu. He’s a rookie, which isn’t that bad aside from the teasing from senior members of the team. He also shares a team with one of the players he used to sit on the top four ranking for high school aces with, Bokuto Koutarou. Not to mention, all of the senior members of the team he  _ didn’t  _ meet in high school are exceptionally good at what they do. It’s an excellent team, all things considered.

But still. Kiyoomi can’t help but find it grating to have anything in common with a person like  _ Miya Atsumu,  _ who is smarmy, obnoxious, touchy, and loud—in short, Miya Atsumu is everything that Kiyoomi hates the most. Although, to be honest—there aren’t very many people on the team who suit Kiyoomi’s liking, which is why Kiyoomi skips out on team outings in favor of bothering Motoya, until Motoya joins EJP and Kiyoomi skips out on team outings in favor of being alone. 

But—

Bokuto Koutarou, whether he knows it or not, has a tendency to be very, very persuasive. Something about the earnest expression on his face, the genuinity in his eyes, can start to make even the most stubborn people (read: Sakusa Kiyoomi) change their minds. Keyword being:  _ start.  _ Never once has Kiyoomi actually gone drinking with the others, or hung out at someone’s apartment outside of practice, and after nearly a year, he still has no plans to. 

And then Hinata Shouyou joins the team, and suddenly Bokuto has an equally persuasive, equally oblivious partner in crime. Hinata excels at badgering, whereas Bokuto’s talents lie in his to-a-fault honesty. 

Idly, Kiyoomi wonders why  _ Miya  _ hasn’t been bothering him to go out with the team. For someone so obnoxious and seemingly outgoing, it’s almost shocking that Kiyoomi can’t remember a single time Miya ever actually tried to pester him into doing something he didn’t want to. 

The observation rests oddly in Kiyoomi’s gut. 

“Aw, c’mon,” Hinata whines, following Kiyoomi into the locker room with Bokuto hot on their heels. “You never come out with us, Omi-san!” 

“There’s a reason for that,” Kiyoomi deadpans, not bothering to hold the door for Hinata or Bokuto. Hinata cries out, trying to dodge the door, but Bokuto doesn’t even seem to notice when it falls closed on his shoulder. Kiyoomi blames Bokuto’s unfairly muscular build. 

“Atsumu is coming with us this time!” Hinata badgers, following Kiyoomi to his locker despite their own being on the other side of the room. 

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “How is this is a selling point?” 

Hinata snickers. “Atsumu never comes! They’re so antisocial. Like you! I bet you two would get along great.” 

_ No, we don’t, actually,  _ Kiyoomi wants to say, and he even opens his mouth to do it, but he quickly realizes that—

He’s never actually interacted with Miya outside of a practice or an otherwise volleyball-related setting, not even back in high school. His eyes drift across the room to find Miya changing out of their practice clothes on their own, though they lift their head and offer Bokuto a grin when the other walks by.

“Please?” Hinata asks, drawing Kiyoomi’s attention back to them. “I promise I’ll never pester you again if you come tonight.” 

“I don’t believe that,” Kiyoomi says. 

Hinata grins. “Yeah, fair. Okay, how about this, then: I’ll leave you alone for a month.” 

“Two,” Kiyoomi retorts. 

“Two months,” Hinata agrees. “Two months is good.” 

Kiyoomi glances back to the place where Miya had been, only to find that they’ve already left. He sighs. “Fine. I’ll go. Where are we meeting?” 

Hinata beams, jumping and letting out a whoop loud enough that Meian shushes them. “I’ll text you the address, okay?”

“Whatever,” Kiyoomi sighs, already regretting his decision. He watches Hinata skip away, and considers how long and how hard he would have to bang his head against the locker to give himself a concussion and have a viable excuse to back out without looking like a flake. 

For some reason, though, the thought of Miya being there makes it seem—more enticing. Hm.

“Motoya,” Kiyoomi asks when his cousin picks up the phone after the fourth— _ fourth, _ how dare he not answer immediately—ring. “How much would I have to pay you for you to hit me with your car?” 

Motoya just laughs, the bastard.

-

Kiyoomi is never late, which is why he arrives at the pub at 7 on the dot as instructed. He spots a head of bright orange hair standing at the bar inside, though it takes him a moment to familiarize himself with the sight of his teammates outside of workout clothes. Even when they leave the locker room after practice, nobody really wants to wear anything other than sweats.

Bokuto is chattering amiably, hanging off the shoulder of a sophisticated-looking man around Kiyoomi’s age with dark, wavy hair and glasses. Kiyoomi supposes that he must be Bokuto’s boyfriend that he mentions frequently during practice. Akaashi, was it? 

Meian and several of the others are seated at Bokuto’s table, though Kiyoomi notices that Miya is not among them. He scans the bar’s interior, searching for that head of bleached-blond hair, until a voice behind him asks, “Lookin’ for someone, Omi?” 

Kiyoomi instinctively cringes, glancing over his shoulder at Miya. Miya looks possibly the nicest of anyone in the bar, their clothing style definitely superior to that of their teammates’. Where Bokuto came in jeans and a Fukurodani sweatshirt, Miya came dressed smartly in a cream-colored turtleneck, complete with maroon slacks and taupe boots that match the color of their peacoat. They look better than Kiyoomi, something Kiyoomi isn’t used to happening. Kiyoomi scowls at the thought. 

“No,” he huffs. “I just got here.” 

A vaguely amused smile plays across Miya’s face. “Right.” They skirt past Kiyoomi, walking further into the bar. “Heya, Shouyou-kun. What’re we drinkin’?” 

“Beer!” Hinata chirps, carrying several glasses full of the amber liquid back to the table where all of the burly volleyball players are hogging the bar’s floorspace. Kiyoomi sighs, approaching the bar to order something a bit less  _ beer.  _ Kiyoomi has  _ class,  _ okay, he doesn’t just settle for whatever’s on tap. Besides—getting drunk, in Kiyoomi’s opinion, is a vastly unpleasant experience. He doesn’t like the odd sensation it brings with it, nor does he appreciate how it muddles his mind and slurs his sentences. If he’s going to get drunk, or even just  _ tipsy,  _ he’s not going to do it drinking cheap beer.

“What can I get for you?” the bartender asks when Kiyoomi approaches. Kiyoomi glances around before answering, noting that the bar seems oddly empty. He and the rest of the team must have beaten the evening rush. 

“Cassis grape. Make it strong,” he replies. He taps his fingers against the tabletop, adjusting the position of his face mask while he watches the bartender work.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Miya approach the bar, though they aren’t looking at Kiyoomi. 

When the bartender turns around and slides Kiyoomi’s drink to him, the bartender grins at Miya. “Beer?” he asks, his eyes darting over to the increasingly rowdy volleyball team. 

Miya shakes their head. “Lemon sour, please.”

Kiyoomi sips his drink, raising an eyebrow. “I would’ve thought you’d be drinking beer with the others. You seem sloppy enough to like such a simple drink.”

Miya huffs a laugh, not even batting an eye at the insult. “Nah. I mean, I don’t hate it, but. Not in the mood, yanno?”

Kiyoomi does not know. Still, he nods and takes another sip of his drink, considering whether or not it’s worth it to actually interact with the team in order to prove to Hinata that he really came and suffered. 

“It ain’t at all surprising that his highness Sakusa Kiyoomi can’t stomach a glass of beer,” Miya says suddenly, drawing Kiyoomi’s attention. Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. “Ya seem the snobby type.” 

Perhaps that’s deserved. Still, Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and pointedly doesn’t respond. 

Miya sighs. They really don’t look very happy to be here, something Kiyoomi just can’t fathom. Miya is such a social butterfly during practice, always hanging around Bokuto or Hinata and laughing loud enough that Kiyoomi can hear them on the other side of the gym. Why wouldn’t Miya want to come out socializing after practice? 

“Hinata said you don’t come to these very often,” Kiyoomi prompts, sipping his drink and trying his best to look disinterested. 

Miya shrugs, running their finger along the rim of their glass. “Not a big bar person.”

Kiyoomi frowns. “I would’ve thought you’d be all for these events, though.”

Miya frowns, looking at him with a questioning glance. Kiyoomi averts his gaze, his cheeks warming. He can’t be drunk already—why is he flushing?

“You’re very,” he pauses, wrinkling his nose, “ _ social.” _

Miya barks out a laugh. “Well sure, Omi, everyone looks social when they’re standin’ next to  _ ya _ . But I ain’t really all that fond of the loud and noisy and overstimulatin’. More of a ‘come over ‘n watch a movie’ kinda person.” 

“Hm,” Kiyoomi hums. He gestures the bartender over, ordering another drink when he reaches the bottom of his glass. Miya, it seems, has barely touched theirs. 

“‘Kay, fine,” Miya asks. “How come ya never wanna come to these things?”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Have you met me?” 

Miya chuckles. “I s’pose that’s fair.” They pick up their drink, knocking back their cocktail in one skilled gulp. Kiyoomi finds that he can’t tear his eyes away from the curve of their fingers around the glass, the slope of Miya’s sharp jawline. In the dim lighting of the bar, Miya seems to be bathed in honey, as if they were forged from amber and gold. Kiyoomi has always known, objectively, that Miya is attractive. It’s hard not to notice, not when Miya seems to catch his attention so effortlessly. But here, in the midst of a noisy bar with the burn of alcohol lingering in the back of his throat and pooling in his stomach, Kiyoomi feels— _ intoxicated.  _ In more ways than one. 

The two of them don’t even exchange that much conversation. They steal glances at each other while they sip their drinks, make idle comments whenever their teammates get just a bit too out of hand, and at the bottom of every glass, one of them swears that this is the last before they join the group, before they leave the bar.

Kiyoomi loses track of how many he’s had. Miya doesn’t seem to know either.

“I like yer eyes,” Miya slurs. It feels late, but that could just be the alcohol messing with Kiyoomi’s sense of time. 

Kiyoomi wants to remain composed. He wants to scoff, brush off the compliment. But his stomach burns with desire and his heart flutters at the compliment, and before he knows it, he says, “Against my better judgement, I like your everything.”

Which is about as far from composed as it gets. Sigh. 

Miya’s face turns bright red. “Aw, Omi, ya tease.” They lean closer suddenly, close enough that they have to brace themself on the edge of the bar next to Kiyoomi’s torso, and Kiyoomi can feel the heat radiating off of them in waves. “Don’t play games ya don’t wanna win.”

Kiyoomi regards Miya very carefully. He glances over their shoulder, only to see that he can’t find any of his teammates. Did they leave already? Dismissing the thought, he places his hand on top of Miya’s thigh, leaning in, and breathes, “I live ten minutes away.”

Miya’s eyes widen. They jerk away, scrambling for their wallet to slap some bills on the counter, Kiyoomi doing the same, before the two of them stumble out of the bar. They’re gone before the bartender can so much as bid them goodbye.

-

Kiyoomi wakes the next morning with a pounding in his head and an ache throughout his body that he can’t quite explain. His memories of the previous day end at begrudgingly agreeing to go out, and then getting laughed at by Motoya until he hung up out of spite and didn’t answer when Motoya tried to call back. But practice never makes him this sore, and Kiyoomi never drinks enough to give himself a hangover. The last time he did that—

_ No _ . No, he didn’t. He  _ wouldn’t.  _ Kiyoomi shoots up, ignoring the way the sudden movement makes the room spin and his stomach turn, and looks to right in the bed only to see—

Miya. Staring up at him with wide, terrified eyes, their body hidden by the sheets on Kiyoomi’s bed. Kiyoomi quickly becomes aware of his own nudity, goosebumps raising all up and down his arms and across his bare back.

“Fuck,” Miya squeaks. 

Kiyoomi shares the sentiment. He turns away, scanning the floor to make sure that all of Miya’s clothes came off in the bedroom, and not elsewhere in the apartment, before he steals the comforter off of the bed and wraps it around himself, fleeing to the bathroom where he knows he has an extra set of clothes stashed. 

“Kiyoomi,” he says to his reflection, after he chokes back a couple of painkillers and a mouthful of tap water. He tugs the sweats he’d left out the previous night up over his hips and yanks the t-shirt over his head. “What the fuck did you get yourself into?”

He takes a moment to breathe, willing some of his nerves to calm, before he opens the bathroom door and steps out into the main area of the apartment, where Miya is standing in last night’s clothes, their arms crossed over their chest and their eyes glued to the floor.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi says, massaging his temples, “what the fuck did we do last night?”

“We fucked,” Miya replies. “Like, a lot.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t think he’s ever seen them as uncomfortable as they are now. “Fuck,” he breathes. Miya nods. 

“Sorry,” Miya says. “Ya were—really drunk. Drunk enough to forget, apparently.”

“You were drunk too, weren’t you?” Kiyoomi replies, narrowing his eyes. Miya nods. They still won’t meet his eyes, which makes self-loathing burn hot and heavy in Kiyoomi’s gut. Why didn’t he just stay home last night? Why didn’t he just tell Hinata  _ no,  _ the same way he always does? Why couldn’t he have just avoided this situation altogether? 

“Teammates ain’t s’posed to hook up,” Miya says. 

“No shit,” Kiyoomi snaps. “Which is why neither of us are ever going to speak of this again, got it? None of this ever happened.”

Miya flinches like they’ve been slapped, but Kiyoomi can’t for the life of him figure out why a promise of being able to forget their shame would be undesirable. 

“Whatever,” Miya mutters. “Later, Sakusa.” 

It’s only after they’re gone that Kiyoomi realizes—Miya’s never once called them Sakusa, not since high school. Ever since he joined MSBY, it’s always been Omi.

He doesn't really know why the thought of that upsets him.

-

Miya is even more closed off than they used to be at practice, though they don’t seem to show it around anyone other than Kiyoomi. Their teamwork doesn’t suffer, because Miya is an excellent setter and Kiyoomi is an excellent wing spiker, but Kiyoomi can tell—there’s no longer any genuine happiness behind every  _ nice kill,  _ and Miya never seems to look at him when they don’t have to. It’s as if Kiyoomi isn’t really their teammate, just a substitute for somebody they used to know.

It’s fine. They were never friends before the one night stand; there's no reason to be hurt by Miya’s sudden iciness. Kiyoomi hasn’t even lost all that much—maybe a  _ Heya, Omi  _ here and there, or a thumbs up and a cheerful grin after a successful spike, but other than that, Miya didn't really interact with him much at all, and Kiyoomi never tried to interact with  _ them _ . And as long as the volleyball doesn’t suffer—well, that makes it all okay, right? Volleyball is all that matters, at the end of the day. So long as they can work as teammates, it doesn’t matter if Miya goes out of their way to avoid looking at Kiyoomi, and it doesn’t matter that Kiyoomi’s skin feels like it doesn’t fit whenever he thinks about what happened between the two of them. 

Discomfort is fine. Discomfort is normal. Discomfort goes hand in hand with awkwardness, and awkwardness always follows a one night stand with someone you know. That’s why, the one and only other time it’s ever happened to him, Kiyoomi made sure it was a stranger.

Kiyoomi sighs. It sure would be nice if he could stop thinking about Miya, though. More than once in the week following the incident, he’s found himself watching Miya on the other side of the gym, only to be nearly brained by a stray volleyball. Sometimes, it isn’t even a stray; sometimes, the volleyball is one he’s meant to be receiving, and he’s too distracted to notice until it’s caught him in the chest and knocked the wind out of him.

Why the hell does he even care so much? It’s not like he’s incredibly close to his other teammates; the only ones he would consider acquaintances are Hinata and Bokuto, and even those he doesn’t really see himself willingly hanging around. There’s no reason for him to be hung up on somebody he’s never been friends with, somebody he’s never had more than a working relationship with, somebody he has spent his whole life despising. 

But he remembers flashes sometimes. He still can’t remember the full night it happened, but sometimes when he looks at Miya, he catches glimpses of what Miya looked like underneath him, flushed and blissed out. He remembers the feel of their legs slotted together. He remembers Miya’s sleepy, sated smile in that brief moment of paradise before they had fallen asleep, before the intoxication had worn off, before the regret set in. That brief moment where it was pleasing, it was satisfying, it was—

Nice. To be laying in a bed next to Miya Atsumu. 

Kiyoomi thinks that this must be what yearning feels like. But—there’s nothing to yearn for, and there never was. So Kiyoomi does what he always does when it comes to matters of the heart: he studiously ignores them. Ignores them for so long it’s unreasonable, ignores them until it goes away or he dies, whichever comes first.

Miya is just a teammate. A talented volleyball player, but not somebody Kiyoomi would ever want to call a friend, or a significant other. Miya is a teammate. A coworker. Nothing else. 

Unreasonable affections face violent ends.

It’s fine. 

-

“How’s the team?” Motoya asks, his face pixelated over the laptop screen. Kiyoomi sighs; he’s been telling his cousin to get a better wifi modem for weeks, but Motoya’s only talent is ignoring everything Kiyoomi says to him. 

“Fine,” Kiyoomi says, filling out a word in his crossword puzzle. He taps his pencil against the paper, frowning down at the next clue.

Motoya huffs. “Still? It’s been, like, a year, Kiyoomi! Haven’t you made any friends yet?”

“No,” Kiyoomi replies. “Have you?”

“Yeah!” Motoya says, his face brightening. He pulls out his phone, scrolling through until he finds a picture of himself with some other guy who looks vaguely familiar. “His name’s Suna Rintarou! He’s a middle blocker. He’s really funny.” 

_ Suna Rintarou.  _ He was on Miya’s team in high school, if Kiyoomi remembers correctly. Whatever. It isn’t surprising that Motoya has already managed to make a friend; no matter where he goes, people always seem to flock to Motoya. Or maybe he just flocks to them, in ways Kiyoomi never has.

Motoya squints at the screen, putting his phone away. “Is something bothering you? You look more stoic than usual.”

“I’m fine,” Kiyoomi replies, finishing the crossword puzzle before moving onto the next. 

Motoya rolls his eyes. “Y’know, sometimes talking to you is like talking to a wall of concrete.” 

“I’m aware,” Kiyoomi replies.

Motoya whines. “Can’t you ever make it easy for your poor cousin? I’m just trying to look out for you.” 

“If everything were easy, you’d never learn anything,” Kiyoomi says. 

Motoya furrows his brow.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “No, I can’t make it easier for you.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Motoya challenges. 

“Can’t,” Kiyoomi replies. “I’m legally required to inconvenience you.”

Motoya sighs. “Alright, let’s see—that’s not your hungry scowl, because I literally watched you eat lunch over video chat. It’s not your sad scowl, because that has less eyebrow than this. It’s not your tired scowl; that one looks more like a frown. Oh—this is the gay scowl.” He snickers. “Are you having boy troubles? Does Kiyoomi have a crush?”

“I’m hanging up now,” Kiyoomi says, reaching for the mousepad on his laptop. 

“No, wait!” Motoya cries. “I’ll be serious. You can tell me what’s going on, Kiyoomi.”

“I would prefer not to,” Kiyoomi says. 

Motoya shrugs. “That’s okay, too, But remember not to let your feelings fester, Kiyoomi! Don’t bottle everything up, you snail!”

“Snail?” Kiyoomi asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Unbelievably slow with little to no emotional comprehension,” Motoya replies.

Kiyoomi really does hang up this time. Motoya doesn’t try to call back, seeming to understand that Kiyoomi wants some space. Motoya is good at reading people like that, even over video chat. 

Kiyoomi sighs, slouching back in his chair and running a hand through his hair to push it back out of his face. This odd bitterness that lingers on his tongue whenever he thinks about Miya, their one night stand weeks ago, and the fallout that followed it is getting rather frustrating. Completely unreasonable and irrational. Kiyoomi wishes that he could just turn his emotions off until it goes away. Surely, it can’t last forever, this strange tug in his gut and desire in his heart. It was just a one night stand. It shouldn’t have the power to ruin any potential for a friendship between them. 

But it does, and it did. Kiyoomi just needs to learn to be okay with that.

-

‘Quiet’ is not a word in Bokuto Koutarou’s vocabulary. The day after he gets engaged, it’s all he can talk about, shouting to the entire gym, locker room, and train station that he’s going to get married. They haven’t even picked out rings yet, and already he seems to be planning the honeymoon.

“You’ll come to my engagement party, right, Sakusa?” he asks, grinning brighter than the goddamn sun. 

“No,” Kiyoomi says, as dreary as a fucking raincloud.

“Aw c’mon,” Hinata says, sidling up to stand on Kiyoomi’s other side. “You gotta go to the engagement party! It’s not some dumb team hangout after practice! It’s a momentous event!” 

“I thought you weren’t allowed to bother me for two months,” Kiyoomi says. 

“And I didn’t,” Hinata says. “It’s been two months and one day!”

Seriously? It feels like only yesterday Kiyoomi woke up with Miya in his bed and everything went to shit. 

“Even still,” Kiyoomi says. “I’m not going.”

“Please?” Bokuto asks, busting out the puppy-dog eyes that almost always get him what he wants. 

Unlucky for him, the puppy-dog eyes don’t work on Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi’s more of a cat person, after all. “No.” 

Bokuto huffs, pouting as he trudges away, Hinata following close behind him. Even his hair seems to droop, his disappointment practically palpable. Kiyoomi watches them go, as they approach Inunaki to invite him, but finds his eyes drifting across the gym to a certain blond he’s been trying very hard not to look at for the past few weeks. Months, apparently.

Miya glances away from their conversation after a moment, meeting Kiyoomi’s eyes for the first time in two months. Their eyes are sad, the brown a shade darker than its usual honey glow. Come to think of it, Miya’s entire countenance seems to have shifted. Where before they looked like amber, a precious treasure or some sweet treat dipped in honey, everything about them seems to have dulled significantly. It’s easy for the eye to skip over them, because they don’t stand out anymore. They look—almost sick. but Kiyoomi knows Miya wouldn’t ever be stupid enough to come to practice while feeling ill.

Perhaps this whole fiasco affected them just as much as it affected Kiyoomi. Perhaps neither of them are happy with the current arrangement.

But neither of them have ever been all that good at social interaction. So the bridge between them stays burned and broken, and they both stay miserable. 

Kiyoomi wonders if Miya will be at Bokuto’s engagement party.

-

Kiyoomi doesn’t really know what it is that compels him to text Hinata and ask which bar the engagement party is being held at. Perhaps it’s that staring at the paint on his apartment walls finally got boring, or maybe it’s just that he’s sick of being alone with his thoughts. Either way, by the time he gets off of the train and finds himself in a part of the city he doesn’t recognize, a well-lit bar illuminating the street corner, he seriously considers jumping into oncoming traffic to avoid having to go inside. How does he continually manage to find himself in these situations?

Inside the bar is the exact scene Kiyoomi was imagining: the volleyball team, plus several others he doesn’t immediately recognize, are all crowded around one of the larger tables, laughing and joking with Bokuto and Akaashi at the center of it all, smiling with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. Most everyone seems to be drinking something different, though Kiyoomi spots several beers, a clear drink that looks concerningly like a very large glass of straight vodka, and even—is that kahlua and milk?

“Omi-san!” Hinata calls, their speech ever so slightly slurred. How late is Kiyoomi, that Hinata is already tipsy? Kiyoomi didn’t take Hinata for a lightweight.

Hinata waves him over, shoving a man with wavy, blond hair and glasses off of the chair next to them in order to, presumably, make room for Kiyoomi. 

“Stupid-shima, I was saving that seat for Omi-san!” Hinata pouts, glaring up at the man. 

The man scowls, grabbing his drink and moving away even as he drawls, “You didn’t even know he was coming until twenty minutes ago.”

“I was saving the seat for twenty minutes,” Hinata retorts. The blond just rolls his eyes and walks away, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Kiyoomi understands how he feels. 

He takes his seat to satiate the pleading expression on Hinata’s face, even though he hasn’t even had a chance to order his drink yet. 

“How come you changed your mind?” Hinata asks, hiccupping slightly. Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose, pulling his face mask higher up. He’s learning to be better with germs and residing in close quarters with others, but the rowdy, sit-on-top-of-each-other group outings with the team make his anxieties come back in all the worst ways. His arms itch.

“I’m going to get a drink,” Kiyoomi says, extricating himself from the table and the chair. On his way past the head of the table, he quietly congratulates Akaashi, as Bokuto is too busy trying to drink someone with very messy black hair under the table.

The bar is a sweet reprieve from the noise and general chaos of the engagement party, as there are only a few patrons sucking down drinks to forget their woes. Kiyoomi waits for the bartender to notice him, quietly placing his order and hoping the bartender takes as long as humanly possible to make it. It isn’t that he doesn’t like his—friends? Teammates? Acquaintances? Whatever they are to him—it isn’t that he doesn’t like them. It’s simply that they are very loud, very touchy, and very social, and Kiyoomi is exactly none of those things. He may be a bit less socially stunted than he was in high school, but he’s still trying to adjust his incredibly introverted nature, and going out to be pressed up against a million rowdy men is not his idea of ‘gradual exposure therapy,’ nor would he ever consider it a good time.

“Lemon sour,” an achingly familiar voice says at his side. Kiyoomi stiffens, very carefully  _ not  _ turning his head, though he glances out of the corner of his eye to see if the person he thinks is there is really at his side. 

Miya taps their fingers against the bartop, watching the bartender work. Kiyoomi abruptly realizes that his drink is ready, and probably has been sitting in front of him for a minute or two. He picks it up, sipping it lightly before he takes a deep breath in through the nose and tries to mentally fortify himself to return to the table. 

He should’ve expected Miya to show up. Miya is closer friends with Bokuto than Kiyoomi will ever be, so there’s no reason why Miya  _ wouldn’t  _ be here. But still—their presence here makes Kiyoomi’s heart twist in his chest, tight enough that he doesn’t think he’ll be able to return to the table without going into cardiac arrest and dying. Having a heart attack might put a damper on the party, Kiyoomi thinks, so he takes his seat at the bar and decides to remain there. For the good of the party. No other reason.

Miya returns to the table as soon as their drink finishes, without so much as sparing Kiyoomi a glance. Again, Kiyoomi should’ve expected it, but it still hurts all the same. Kiyoomi chugs his drink, once again regretting showing up in the first place. He should’ve fucking stayed home. None of this would’ve ever happened if Kiyoomi had just done what he’d really wanted and stayed the fuck home.  _ Both  _ times.

The bartender gives him another drink when he asks. Miya’s all-too-familiar laugh carries across the room like a throwing knife embedding itself in Kiyoomi’s spine, making him wince into the rim of his extra strong cassis grape as he chugs the drink. The burn of the alcohol chasing its way down his throat stings enough to distract him, even if it’s only momentarily, from the aching, stabbing pain in his heart. Fucking hell. Kiyoomi thought that he’d repressed these feelings months ago. What the hell is he doing moping over his broken heart in the middle of someone else’s engagement party?

Three, four. The bartender keeps the drinks coming as long as Kiyoomi has the money to pay, and nobody from the engagement party ever comes to ask why he’s stayed away for so long. Kiyoomi takes a moment to thank his antisocial reputation before he knocks back another swig of his drink.

Someone plops down on the stool next to his. For a moment, Kiyoomi’s traitorous heart leaps, hoping it’s Miya, but it comes crashing down when he realizes that it’s a stranger. A handsome stranger, but a stranger all the same.

The stranger leans close. Kiyoomi leans away. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone?”

“Mourning,” Kiyoomi deadpans. 

The stranger huffs a laugh. “I don’t see any black.”

Kiyoomi frowns, looking down at his outfit. “I’m certain I put some on before I left.” Why is he saying this? Oh, God, he’s drunk, isn’t he? Really drunk, well and truly drunk, ‘fuck up the only friendship you really want to make’ drunk. ‘Slur nonsense because his mind is too muddled to tell the handsome stranger to fuck off like he really wants to’ drunk. 

Again, the stranger laughs. “C’mon. Let’s get out of this stuffy bar.” 

“Let’s not,” Kiyoomi retorts.

The stranger reaches out, placing his hand on Kiyoomi’s thigh. Kiyoomi stiffens. “Don’t be like that.”

“Take your hand off of me,” Kiyoomi says. His head is spinning. He wants to slap the stranger’s hand away, but he can’t really—he can’t seem to pinpoint exactly where it is, nor are his limbs cooperating enough to have the strength. Kiyoomi fucking hates being drunk. 

“Come home with me,” the stranger purrs. “I’ll make it worth your while.” 

“Take your hand  _ off of me,”  _ Kiyoomi insists, shoving the stranger as best he can. The bartender is distracted with another patron, and there’s nobody else around to save him. Anxiety swells in Kiyoomi’s gut like a tidal wave. Abruptly, the room is far too small, the stranger far too close to him, the air far too thin. He needs the mask to breathe but the mask is—he can’t  _ breathe.  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck. Normally he has better control of his emotions. Normally he isn’t being  _ groped in the middle of a fucking bar.  _

“Hey, ya wanna fuck off?” a voice drawls, and suddenly the hand is gone from his thigh, the alcohol-scented breath gone from his nose, the stubble gone from his peripheral.

It sounds like an argument breaks out between the handsome stranger and whoever the newcomer is, but Kiyoomi is too focused on the panic attack he’s currently having to really pay it much mind. Through the hazy fog in his mind, he musters the sense to flee the building, sprinting out the door and onto the deserted sidewalk. The cold night air stings as he yanks down his facemask, sinking to his knees on the concrete. He heaves, over and over, but he can’t quite seem to—

“Omi,” a voice murmurs. There’s someone in front of him. When did that person get there? “Breathe with me, okay? In. Out. In. Out. Yeah, good, just like that.” 

Kiyoomi follows the newcomer’s exaggerated breathing, until slowly, gradually, the panic in his mind starts to dissipate like seafoam on the shore, a wave dying off just before it reaches the beach.

“Omi,” the voice whispers. “Omi, can I touch ya?” 

Kiyoomi shakes his head. 

“Okay,” the voice replies. “But I’m gonna need ya to lift yer head for me, okay?” 

Kiyoomi shakes his head again. 

“Just try, okay?” the voice says. 

Kiyoomi squeezes his eyes shut, but he does as the voice wants and lifts his head. It takes several more minutes for him to muster the courage to actually open his eyes, only to see that it’s Miya sitting in front of him, smiling softly. 

“There ya go,” Miya breathes. “There’s that scowl.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t have the energy to roll his eyes. 

“Okay,” Miya says. “Name five things you can see.”

Kiyoomi’s eyes dart up and down the street. “Salon. Sidewalk. Trash can. Your hair. The sky.”

“Good,” Miya praises. “Four things you can hear.” They tap their ear.

Kiyoomi’s eyes slip shut again as he concentrates. “Traffic. The bar. Your breathing. My heartbeat.”

“Three things you can feel,” Miya says, wiggling their fingers. 

Kiyoomi rubs his fingertips against the fabric of his jacket. “Wool. Rocks. My hair in my eyes.” 

Miya laughs quietly. “Two things you can smell.”

Kiyoomi sniffs, then wrinkles his nose. “Alcohol. More alcohol.”

“Alright,” Miya says. “And then one thing you can taste.”

Kiyoomi thinks for a moment. “Vomit. I think I threw up in my mouth.” 

Again, Miya chuckles. “I’ll get ya somethin’ better tastin’ on the way home, ‘kay? Let’s get ya outta here.” 

They stand, stretching slightly, before turning to look down at Kiyoomi. It takes them a moment to offer him a hand, something Kiyoomi takes gratefully. He leans heavily on Miya, still feeling the remaining dregs of a panic attack making him disgustingly clingy, and the last bits of intoxication screwing with his mobility. Miya, in any case, doesn’t really seem to mind Kiyoomi hanging off of their arm.

Miya stops outside the front door of the bar, thankfully not reacting when Kiyoomi stiffens and hides his face in their shoulder. Hinata comes outside after a few seconds, passing a to-go cup of what smells like some kind of soda to Miya and nodding when they say that they’ll be taking Kiyoomi home. 

“I’ll let the others know,” Hinata promises. They wait outside even as Miya and Kiyoomi move to walk away, as if they’re going to watch to make sure the two of them make it to the train station safely. Kiyoomi doesn’t entirely blame them; he imagines the incident with the stranger likely frightened all of his friends, and not just him. It’s scary when someone tries to hurt the people you love, and it’s especially unsettling when it happens mere feet away from you.

Miya eventually holds out the to-go cup for Kiyoomi, waiting patiently until he lifts his head and takes it with a trembling hand. 

“It’s Sprite,” Miya says. “For yer stomach. And yer mouth.”

Kiyoomi takes a sip from the straw. The carbonated beverage at first stings on his tongue, but he quickly grows accustomed to it. He isn’t usually a soda person, but he appreciates that it gets the nasty taste out of his mouth.

Miya is very good at walking him home, it seems. They don’t try to talk to him, seeming to understand that conversation is the very last thing Kiyoomi wants at the moment, and they don’t try to push him away as Kiyoomi leans heavily against their arm and side, clinging to them like an ugly, drunk koala. They lead Kiyoomi onto the train back from the bar, and then they help him find his key somewhere in his jacket pocket to let them back into his apartment.

Once inside, a small fraction of the lingering fear dissipates, enough that Kiyoomi is able to separate himself from Miya’s arm. Miya watches him struggle with his jacket and shoes, an amused glint in their eyes. Once he’s finally gotten his coat and boots off, Miya gently pushes him toward the back of the apartment, where Kiyoomi’s warm bed is waiting. 

But Miya doesn't take Kiyoomi to his room. No, Miya shoves Kiyoomi into the bathroom, and when Kiyoomi shoots them a curious, probably pouty glance, they say, “Wash the alcohol stink off or you’ll hate yerself when ya wake up ‘n ya gotta wash all yer sheets.”

Kiyoomi stares balefully at the shower. 

“C’mon, Omi, yer a clean freak,” Miya says. “Why don’t ya wanna take a shower? I thought ya were shower-sexual.”

“I am  _ homosexual,”  _ Kiyoomi corrects, furrowing his brow. 

Miya snorts. “I know that, dummy. I’m makin’ a joke.”

“It’s not funny,” Kiyoomi informs them. 

“Ya never think my jokes are funny,” Miya points out. 

Kiyoomi considers this. “You should get better jokes, then.”

“Here,” Miya says, walking past Kiyoomi to turn on the shower. They reach under the sink to pull out one of Kiyoomi’s fluffiest, biggest towels, and even go so far as to walk into Kiyoomi’s room to retrieve a fresh change of clothes. Since when does Miya know Kiyoomi’s apartment well enough to navigate it like this? “Alright. I’ve gotten everything set up all nice for ya. All that’s left is for ya to actually  _ get in.” _

The shower is steaming up the bathroom. Kiyoomi droops slightly, stifling a yawn. Miya does have a point; normally, Kiyoomi loves the feel of washing away a day’s worth of germs and dirt. But all he ever wants to do after a panic attack is go to sleep, and all he ever wants to do when he’s drunk is sleep it off, so his entire body is fighting against what he knows he needs to do.

Miya sighs. “Come on, Omi. Don’t make me bathe ya.” 

Kiyoomi slumps against the bathroom counter, his eyes slipping shut. He knows that what Miya is telling him to do is both right and entirely reasonable, something Miya rarely is, but—he’s so  _ tired.  _

“Alright, fine,” Miya says. “Arms up.” 

Kiyoomi lifts his arms, watching as Miya tugs his sweater over his head and dumps it on the floor of the bathroom. They pull off Kiyoomi’s undershirt too, and Kiyoomi shivers once his chest is exposed. 

“Your turn,” Miya says. “Do the pants.”

Kiyoomi does as told, stripping everything off, pliant as Miya pushes him into the shower stall. Miya peels off their socks and their own sweater, following him into the shower still in their jeans and t-shirt. They hold Kiyoomi in place underneath the stream of the warm water, waiting a few moments for his hair to soak before they reach for the shampoo and begin to work it in. Their touch against his scalp is soothing, enough that Kiyoomi thinks they might nod off right there in the shower. 

Kiyoomi’s never had anyone touch him this intimately before. Nobody’s ever cared for him this much, not since the nannies his parents used to hire to raise him while they worked their lives away. Something in the back of Kiyoomi’s brain says that this is wrong, that Miya should not be standing in Kiyoomi’s shower scrubbing shampoo into his scalp and taking care of him after a truly awful night. Isn’t he supposed to be avoiding Miya? Isn’t Miya supposed to be avoiding  _ him _ ?

But—just like he said, Kiyoomi hasn’t had anybody care about him this much since the people who were paid to. Nobody’s ever wanted to take care of him, nobody’s ever wanted to help him rinse shampoo from his hair because they don’t want him to have to wash his sheets in the morning when he’s hungover. Kiyoomi lifts his hands to lightly grasp Miya’s wrists, humming softly as he sways beneath the spray of the shower head. 

Miya chuckles. “Omi, don’t ya go fallin’ asleep on me.”

“I bet you’d make a comfortable pillow,” Kiyoomi murmurs, closing his eyes. 

Miya moves onto body wash, handing Kiyoomi a soapy loofah with instructions to scrub himself until he doesn’t smell like the inside of a bar anymore. Once Kiyoomi finishes, Miya lets him fall forward to rest his head against their chest as they massage conditioner into his hair. 

“Don’t leave me alone,” Kiyoomi breathes, when Miya guides him out of the shower and starts to towel his body and hair dry.

“I won’t,” Miya promises, pulling a sweatshirt down over Kiyoomi’s head before telling him to put his pants on.

Kiyoomi grabs onto Miya’s arm, hanging off of them as they lead him to the bed. “Promise?” 

Miya grins, helping Kiyoomi under the covers. “Promise.”

Kiyoomi’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.

-

Kiyoomi wakes with a hangover, something he really hopes isn’t going to become a common trend. If he’s smart, he’ll never let Hinata convince him to go to another alcohol-related team outing ever again. Then again, if he were smart, he wouldn’t have gone to begin with. 

Kiyoomi groans and rolls over, tugging the blankets up over his head. It takes a second for the events of the night before to hit him, but once they do, he shoots up in bed, glancing around the room to see if there’s any proof that it really happened, or if it was all a cassis grape-induced fever dream. 

There’s a glass of water and three Advil tablets on the nightstand that Kiyoomi definitely didn't have the clarity to set out the night before. Kiyoomi swallows the tablets like stones, feeling his stomach sink out of his body entirely. This has to be his lowest point. Letting someone,  _ Miya  _ of all people, take care of him?  _ Washing his hair?  _ Kiyoomi doesn’t think he’s ever felt more humiliated. 

A part of him is tempted to go back to sleep until he hopefully passes away and never has to acknowledge that any of this ever happened. But Kiyoomi knows he can’t; he knows that Miya might still be sitting in his living room, just like he knows that they’ll have to talk about this at some point. ‘This’ being all of the water under the bridge, from Miya helping him through his panic attack to their ill-advised hook up two months ago. 

Kiyoomi sighs, trudging out of his room to find Miya awake on his couch, scrolling through their phone. They look up when Kiyoomi appears, nodding in greeting. 

“Are ya hungry?” they ask. “I could order somethin’.” 

Kiyoomi curls up in the nearby armchair, pulling his knees up to his chest. He shakes his head, tugging on the hem of his sweatshirt as he asks, “We didn’t—did we—”

“Nah,” Miya interrupts, seeming to read his mind. “Ya were really drunk, Omi. I wouldn’t do that.” 

Yeah, well, Kiyoomi was drunk last time, too. 

“I was drunk too, yanno,” Miya says, their eyebrows furrowed. Did Kiyoomi say that out loud? He hadn’t meant to. “Don’t act like I went ‘n took advantage of ya. If I remember correctly,  _ I  _ wasn’t the one on top back then.”

Kiyoomi flinches. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Miya challenges. “Bring up the one night stand? I know ya decided  _ for us _ that we were to never speak of it again, but I can’t just go ‘n forget somethin’ like that, Omi. I wasn't blessed with the drunken blackout like you.”

“Stop it,” Kiyoomi says, curling into a tighter ball. He didn’t realize how much this conversation would make him want to shrivel up and die. Either he’s still recovering from last night, or the one night stand fucked him up in more ways than he thought.

Probably a little bit of both, now that he thinks about it. Or a lot.

“No,” Miya huffs. “I can’t just stop thinkin’ about it, Omi! Don’t ya think I  _ want to?  _ I don’t want to be thinkin’ about that night every time I look at ya, yanno! But I can’t  _ stop.”  _

“Why?” Kiyoomi demands. 

“Because!” Miya insists. “Because I remember how  _ good  _ it was!” 

“Then just—fuck me again, if you’re so goddamn horny!” Kiyoomi snaps. “Have your fucking way with me, Miya, I don’t fucking care if it’ll get you to leave me the fuck alone.” He pauses, thinking, as he picks at a loose thread in his sweatpants. “Was this why you fucking—was this the whole reason why you helped me last night? Because you wanted to get in my bed?”

“No!” Miya says immediately. “I helped ya ‘cause ya needed  _ help,  _ Omi, and I help my teammates when they need me. I’m not  _ you;  _ I don’t act like all my teammates cease to exist as soon as practice lets out.”

“That’s not fair,” Kiyoomi starts, but Miya isn’t finished. 

“No, what’s not fair is that I have to remember the night we spent together and I have to spend every day knowing that ya  _ forgot,”  _ they spit. “What’s not fair is that I can’t stop thinkin’ about ya, ‘n ya won’t even fuckin’ look at me! What’s not fair is that I never wanted to fuck ya in the first place!”

“Well, neither did I!” Kiyoomi retorts. “What, do you think I  _ wanted  _ to jeopardize my relationship with a teammate and my spot on the team, just because I was fucking drunk and horny? Do you think I wanted  _ this?”  _

“Ya weren’t exactly sayin’ no that night!” Miya exclaims. 

“Neither were  _ you!”  _ Kiyoomi explodes. “I don’t have to remember every last detail to know that you said  _ yes,  _ when I asked. Face it, Miya: we  _ both  _ said yes. Now we have to live with the uncomfortable consequences.”

“Yer insufferable,” Miya huffs. 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “What do you want me to do, Miya? Quit the fucking team?”

“I want ya to stop makin’ me fuckin’ care about ya!” Miya snaps. “Yer so fuckin’ rude! Yer literally  _ such _ a jerk, ya’ve never given me the time of day—not once! Not even in fuckin’ high school! There’s no fuckin’  _ reason _ for me to be so goddamn hung up on the ass who won’t even  _ look  _ at me, the guy who’s acting like  _ I’m  _ the whore!”

“So, what,” Kiyoomi hisses, “are you calling  _ me  _ a whore?” 

“No!” Miya retorts. “I’m fuckin’ pissed!”

“That doesn’t give you the right to go around spitting harsh words you don’t mean,” Kiyoomi snaps. 

“Maybe not,” Miya seethes, “but havin’ a one night stand when we were  _ both  _ drunk doesn’t give ya the right to act like I’m the gum beneath yer shoe.” 

Kiyoomi says nothing, his eyes locked on the carpeted floor beneath his chair. Somewhere in the back of his head, he thinks Miya might be right. But—he also doesn’t know what he did wrong, not really. This is what you do after a one night stand, right? You ignore them, and act like it never happened. He’s not treating Miya any differently than before; the two of them were just short of strangers before it happened. There’s no reason to treat them like a best friend  _ now.  _

Miya fidgets for several minutes, until finally it seems that they can’t stand the tension anymore; they get to their feet, heading for the door. 

“I'll see ya at practice?” they offer. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even move, doesn’t even blink until he hears the door open and click shut and he knows that he’s well and truly alone once more. When finally there’s nobody else around, when it’s just him and his stupid heart and his stupid hangover and all the stupid decisions he’s made in the past two months—

Something seems to snap within him. Kiyoomi feels hot tears well up and spill over, hiccupping a sob as he wraps his arms around his torso in a meager attempt for comfort. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

_ See you at practice,  _ Miya had said. What a joke.

-

Kiyoomi does not go to practice. In fact, he doesn’t leave his apartment for almost two weeks, long enough that he’s down to his very last instant ramen and Motoya has to come over to stage an intervention.

“Aw, Kiyoomi,” Motoya says, upon seeing Kiyoomi curled up with his comforter wrapped around him in the corner of his bed. “I thought we were past this.”

“Relapse,” Kiyoomi mutters, his eyes glued to whatever stupid Youtube video is playing on his laptop screen. The autoplay feature is the only reason why there’s still a video playing, as he hasn’t moved his arms from beneath the blanket in hours.

Motoya stops at the foot of Kiyoomi’s bed, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “When was the last time you ate some real food?”

Kiyoomi shrugs. 

“When was the last time you went outside?”

Again, he shrugs. 

“The last time you showered?”

Shrug.

“Kiyoomi,” Motoya says, frowning. “You gotta take care of yourself, even when it’s hard.” 

Kiyoomi shakes his head. 

“Don’t you shake your head at me,” Motoya huffs. “Come on. Get out from under your safety lump and put on some fresh clothes. You need something other than instant ramen and coffee in your digestive system.”

“No,” Kiyoomi says. “I’m not leaving.”

“You have to,” Motoya says. 

“I’ll cry on you,” Kiyoomi threatens.

Motoya reaches for the blanket. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

Kiyoomi jerks away with his blanket. “I mean it, Motoya, leave me alone!”

Motoya freezes. 

“I know I’m acting pathetic,” Kiyoomi says, breathing heavily as his heart rate rises. Is he seriously going to have a panic attack over the mere  _ thought  _ of going outside? God, that’s lame. “I know I have to go to practice and eat real food and shower and all that shit. I  _ know,  _ okay? But I just can’t. Not today. Not yet.” He takes a deep, shaky breath, and averts his eyes. “So just—please. Please don’t try and make me.” 

Motoya doesn’t even know  _ why  _ Kiyoomi is doing this; Kiyoomi is notoriously bad at opening up, and even worse about confiding in people when it comes to things that scare him. Motoya has no idea that the thought of seeing Miya at practice makes Kiyoomi feel like the world is spinning and he’s standing still. Motoya doesn’t have a clue about what happened at the bar, doesn’t have a clue that every strange man Kiyoomi walks past smells like cheap tequila on the back of his neck. Nobody is safe anymore, not when Kiyoomi goes to the grocery store or to the train station or even to practice. The only place where he can’t get hurt is in his apartment, with the lights off and the blankets pulled over his head. 

But how the hell is he supposed to explain all of that to Motoya?

Motoya is quiet for a few moments. “Okay,” he finally says. “We won’t go outside. But—how about just to the living room?”

Kiyoomi frowns up at him. 

Motoya smiles, or at least tries to. It doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Baby steps, right? Rome wasn’t built in a day.” 

Kiyoomi stares at him for several long moments, before finally he sighs and scoots over to the edge of the bed. “I’m taking this blanket with me,” he declares. 

Motoya laughs. “While we’re there, you can text your teammates to let them know you haven't died!” he says brightly. 

Kiyoomi scowls. “Don’t push it.”

-

Kiyoomi returns to practice after another few days of moping in his bed. Hinata and Bokuto are very loud and very happy to see him, while the rest of his teammates greet him in much more muted but genuine comments. Miya is the only one who doesn’t immediately flock toward Kiyoomi, something that grates on Kiyoomi’s still recovering heart.

The two of them don’t talk at all until after practice, after everyone else has finished and left the locker room and Kiyoomi and Miya are the only ones who still remain. Kiyoomi focuses intently on his locker in front of him and decidedly  _ not  _ on Miya, tugging off his practice clothes as fast as he can to get out of the locker room and go home. 

“We shouldn’t keep doin’ this,” Miya says. 

Kiyoomi says nothing. 

Miya sighs softly. “We’re teammates, Sakusa.”

Sakusa. Not Omi, not Omi-omi. It shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn't bother him.

But it does, so. Kiyoomi tightens his grip on the door of his locker.

“Teammates ain’t s’posed to hate each other this much, I don’t think,” Miya continues. They’re getting really quite good at that: speaking even when Kiyoomi doesn’t respond or react. It’s like they somehow  _ know  _ when Kiyoomi is listening and when he isn’t.

“Teammates aren’t supposed to fuck each other,” Kiyoomi mutters. “So I don’t see why it matters whether or not we’re the best of friends.”

“I ain’t sayin’ we gotta be best friends,” Miya huffs, frowning slightly. Kiyoomi can’t even see them, but he can hear the frown in their voice. 

“Then, what  _ are  _ you saying?” Kiyoomi challenges. 

Miya sighs again, a quiet noise in the otherwise silent locker room. “I’m just sayin’—I’m willin’ to put it in the past if ya are, too. We coulda been friends, if we never went and did what we did.” 

Kiyoomi snorts. “No, we couldn’t have. I hated you before that night. I’ve always hated you.” 

Miya doesn’t say anything for so long that Kiyoomi actually turns around. But when he glances over his shoulder, Miya isn’t there, their locker closed and all of their things gone from the room. The locker room door falls shut just as Kiyoomi pieces together what it is he’d said, and he curses silently. 

At first, he turns to continue changing, counting it as another loss and moving on with his life. But after a beat, two, he mutters, “Fuck that,” and he drops his clean sweatshirt on the floor of the locker room, turning tail and sprinting off after Miya before they have a chance to leave him behind completely. 

Miya is still walking down the hallway to leave the gym when Kiyoomi exits the locker room. 

“Miya!” he calls, slightly winded from the abrupt mad dash. “Wait!” 

Miya stalls, turning to look over their shoulder at him. They frown. “Sakusa? What’re ya doin’? Where’s yer mask?” 

Kiyoomi cringes a little, but shakes his head and continues on anyway. “I didn’t—mean it like that.” 

Miya furrows their brow. “Like what? Ya didn’t mean that ya hated me, ‘n ya always have? Ya didn’t mean to come off like the big fuckin’ jerk that ya really are?”

Perhaps Kiyoomi deserves that. But still, he shakes his head and says, “Fuck—you know I’m not any good at this, Miya. You know I don’t know how to talk to people; why do you think I never do it? I  _ always  _ say the wrong thing, even when I don’t mean to. But I didn’t—I  _ don’t— _ I don’t hate you. It was stupid of me to say that.”

Miya stares at him, their eyes narrowed and one eyebrow raised. 

Kiyoomi shifts, hunching his shoulders just slightly. It’s bad for his posture, he knows, but something about curling up feels—better. Armadillos do it, why can’t he? 

“I’m sorry, okay?” he finally says. He ignores the waver in his voice. “For—all of it. I can’t really—explain it all right now, but if you give me time I might—I might be able to.”

Still, Miya doesn’t say anything. 

Kiyoomi averts his eyes. “Fucking say something, would you?”

Miya blinks several times, staring at him, before suddenly, they dissolve into laughter, snorting and snickering at Kiyoomi’s expense. Kiyoomi’s face burns, mortified, but also—

Miya has a nice laugh. It’s ugly, probably one of the ugliest laughs Kiyoomi has ever heard in his life, and still he never wants to go a day without hearing it. Is this affection? Is this—love?

Disgusting. (He kind of likes it.)

When finally Miya calms down, a pleased smile gracing their honey-coated features, their every line embossed with gold, they wipe a stray tear from their eye and say, “Aw, Omi, I used to think ya were a lot smarter.”

Kiyoomi scowls. “I  _ am  _ smart, asshole.”

“Sure ya are,” Miya hums. “Whatever helps ya sleep at night, Omi-omi.” 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, but his heart sings at the return of the nickname he always thought he despised.

Miya grins. “I gotta go for real this time, Omi. I’m s’posed to help ‘Samu with somethin’. But—next time Shouyou-kun tries to get ya to go out with the guys, how ‘bout we just say we’ve got plans?” They wink, shooting Kiyoomi a mock salute and a wink before they spin on their heel and continue down the hall. 

Kiyoomi stares, shell-shocked, until well after Miya has disappeared from sight. But even after he returns to the locker room to finish changing and go home—

He finds that the butterflies still linger. 

-

It isn’t that Kiyoomi forgets that exchange outside the locker room, especially not Miya’s last proposal. But by the time that Hinata finally seems to deem it appropriate to ask Kiyoomi to go to another bar, it’s been at least a month since the party, and Kiyoomi’s mind is too preoccupied by things like Bokuto asking him to be part of the wedding, practice, and dealing with this sudden crush that rears its ugly head every time Miya waves at him and says,  _ Heya, Omi-omi!  _ in the morning. 

But still, when Hinata bounds up to him after practice and says, “Omi-san! Will you come out with the team tonight?” 

Kiyoomi flounders. A part of him is still apprehensive about bars, and the general public—apparently, it only takes one monumentally bad experience to scare him back into his high school agoraphobia. Motoya is getting good at dragging Kiyoomi out to go grocery shopping more than once a month, though, which means he actually gets real food instead of instant ramen, which is a vast improvement to high school, when he would order groceries from his phone and never interact with a human being outside of school and volleyball. 

High school, and all thoughts of that time in his life—it always tends to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. 

Kiyoomi presses his lips into a thin line. “No.” 

“Please?” Hinata wheedles. “I promise I’ll stay with you! I won’t let anything bad happen, I swear!” 

_ Let _ ? Hinata doesn’t honestly think what happened to Kiyoomi was  _ their  _ fault, do they?

Kiyoomi frowns. “First of all: You didn’t  _ let  _ anything bad happen to me last time. Second of all—no.” 

Hinata pouts. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Kiyoomi mutters. 

Just when he’s about to cave to Hinata’s puppy dog eyes (the only puppy dog eyes that really work on Kiyoomi), someone wraps an arm around Kiyoomi’s shoulders. Kiyoomi stiffens, glancing out of the corner of his eye, only to catch sight of a head full of bleached-blond hair and a smarmy smirk that is growing on him far too quickly for comfort.

“Sorry, Shouyou-kun,” Miya drawls, squeezing Kiyoomi’s shoulders slightly. “Omi ‘n I got plans tonight, so we can’t come hang out with y’all. Next time?” 

Hinata furrows their brow, their eyes darting between Kiyoomi and Miya at a rapid pace, before they smile brightly and say, “Okay! Next time!” 

As soon as Hinata sprints off back to Bokuto on the other side of the gym, Kiyoomi shoves Miya’s arm off and takes a step to the side to put some distance between the two of them. 

“ _ Ask  _ next time,” he grumbles, tugging at the sleeves of his jacket. 

“Sorry,” Miya says, lifting their hands in surrender. They furrow their brow, scrunching up their nose as they consider something. “Did ya—did ya actually maybe wanna do somethin’ tonight?”

Kiyoomi blinks. “With you?” 

Miya nods. 

Kiyoomi reels. Of course he wants to do something with Miya; he’s got such a big, gay crush on his teammate that it’s laughable. But—the last few times the two of them have been alone together, it hasn’t gone very well for them. Kiyoomi swallows. 

“Ya don’t hafta,” Miya says, seeming to interpret Kiyoomi’s prolonged silence for a rejection. “I just thought—we’re tryin’ to be friends now, right? Well. Friends hang out with each other every once in a while.” 

Point. 

“Fine,” Kiyoomi finally says. “But don’t—touch me again, okay? I need a little warning.”

Miya nods, shooting him a wink and a finger gun. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, turning away to go find his water bottle near the side of the court. It’s two-on-two game day in the practice schedule; a stupid part of him hopes he gets paired up with Miya.

-

“Yer place or mine?” Miya asks, following Kiyoomi out of the locker room after practice.

Kiyoomi zips his sweatshirt all the way up, burying his chin in the collar, before he mumbles, “Mine.”

“M’kay,” Miya replies. “Is there somethin’ ya wanna do? I don’t really know what ya got goin’ on at yer apartment.” 

Kiyoomi shrugs. “I have Netflix.” 

Miya grins. “Why, Omi, I thought we agreed to keep this strictly platonic.” 

It takes Kiyoomi’s brain a moment to catch up with whatever lewd innuendo Miya is thinking about. He huffs and rolls his eyes, shoving the false blond hopefully into traffic where he’ll get hit by a car and die, so that Kiyoomi never has to hear a comment like that again.

Miya recovers after stumbling a few steps to the side, laughing. 

“Pervert,” Kiyoomi mutters. “I meant  _ Netflix.  _ As in, a real actual movie. Not fucking—Netflix and chill.”

“I’m not a perv,” Miya pouts. “Yer just a prude.”

“Pervert,” Kiyoomi repeats. 

“Prude,” Miya replies. 

Kiyoomi glares. “Pervert.”

“Prude!” Miya insists.

“Pervert.”

“Prude.”

“Pervert.”

“Prude.”

“Pervert.”

“Anyways,” Miya says, following Kiyoomi into the train station. “What kinda movie d’ya wanna watch?”

“Horror,” Kiyoomi says immediately. “But good horror. Slashers are just excessive.”

Miya whines. “Aw, Omi, why’d ya gotta pick horror? Can’t we watch somethin’  _ fun?”  _

“I pick the movie,” Kiyoomi declares, leading Miya to the correct train that will take them as close as possible to his apartment building. “You pick dinner?”

“I’m gonna give ya food poisonin’,” Miya declares. “Seein’ as yer gonna give me nightmares. D’ya have any allergies? I’m allergic to bananas.” 

“No, but I didn’t take you for a wimp,” Kiyoomi comments lightly. 

Miya blinks. Once. Twice. “I’m not a fuckin’ coward!” they exclaim. “Let’s watch the scariest one on Netflix! Let’s watch two!” 

Kiyoomi snickers. “Okay. Works for me.”

After a beat, Miya seems to realize what they’ve just said and lets out a loud wail, without care for the people on the train all around them shooting them dirty looks. “Omi-omi! How could ya play me like that?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Kiyoomi replies. “You did this to yourself.” 

Miya just whines.

-

“I don’t get how ya can watch this shit,” Miya moans, tugging the throw blanket over their head to block the horror movie from their field of vision. Kiyoomi continues watching the film, even as one of the protagonist’s friends wanders off toward the basement. 

“Don’t go into the basement,” Kiyoomi mutters. “Everyone knows the basement is where you get killed.”

“It’s just a basement!” Miya argues, their voice muffled by the blanket. “There’s no reason to assume the axe murderer’s gonna get her in there!”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Horror movie culture, Miya. The basement is never a good setting in a horror movie.”

“Why d’ya  _ know that?”  _ Miya whines.

“I’ve watched a horror movie before,” Kiyoomi deadpans. 

“But  _ why _ ?” Miya exclaims, wrestling the blanket off of themself to send Kiyoomi a truly flabbergasted expression. “Why would ya choose to torture yerself with nightmares and paranoia and anxiety?” 

“My brain picked the anxiety for me,” Kiyoomi retorts. 

Miya snorts. “That ain’t what I meant, ya dip.”

“I know,” Kiyoomi dismisses, flinching slightly as the character lets out an ear-piercing shriek when she gets brutally murdered. He clicks his tongue. “I  _ told  _ her not to go down there.”

Miya is staring, truly petrified, at the bloody mess on the screen. Kiyoomi regards them critically, taking a bite of noodles from his takeout box. He chews before he swallows and says, “Honestly. This isn’t even that bad.”

Miya turns wide eyes on him. “You mean this  _ isn’t  _ the scariest movie on Netflix?”

Kiyoomi snorts. “Of course not. I didn’t want to kill you, Miya.”

“Aw,” Miya mumbles, their voice wavering slightly. “Ya do care.” 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “You’re such a coward. Try watching this home alone in a giant fucking house with floor-to-ceiling windows in almost every room.  _ Then  _ you can be paranoid.” 

Miya frowns. “Where the hell were yer parents?” 

Kiyoomi shrugs. 

“How fuckin’ old were ya when ya were scarrin’ yerself for life?” Miya demands, scowling.

Again, Kiyoomi shrugs. “Thirteen? Eleven? Somewhere around there.” 

“And ya were all on yer  _ own?”  _ Miya exclaims. “That’s outrageous! Omi, I’m gonna kill yer parents.” 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “It’s not that big of a deal.” 

“It  _ is  _ a big deal!” Miya insists. “Ya shouldn’t have been left all alone all the time! Didn’t anyone ever hug ya g’night?” 

Kiyoomi stares flatly. 

“Alright, fine, but what woulda happened if someone tried to kidnap ya?” Miya insists. 

Kiyoomi pinches the bridge of his nose, beginning to regret saying anything in the first place. “I would've stabbed them with a kitchen knife then called the police. Miya, you’re blowing this farther out of proportion than it needs to be.”

Miya huffs, pouting. “Well ‘xcuse me for  _ carin’,  _ unlike yer shitty parents.”

Kiyoomi kicks them.

“Omi?” Miya asks quietly, after a short silence lapses between the two of them. The only sound to be heard for several minutes is the panicked breathing of the protagonist as she hides in a closet, waiting for the axe murderer to either leave or kill her.

“Yes?” Kiyoomi replies. 

Again, Miya is quiet for a few moments. “Can I hug ya?” They clear their throat, flushing suddenly. “Yanno, seein’ as ya made me suffer through that traumatizin’ movie. Lettin’ me give ya a hug ‘s the least ya could do.”

Kiyoomi pauses. He watches as the camera cuts out to the axe murderer leaving the house and disappearing back into the forest it came from, leaving the protagonist safe. Traumatized, but safe. He picked this movie for that exact reason; a lot of horror movies end in blood and death, with no survivors other than the antagonist. He’s seen enough in his lifetime to know how disheartening they can be. But this one—even if the ending isn’t happy, at the very least there is the promise of a continued life, of recovery, of a happily-ever-after somewhere far down the line. If he was going to force Miya to watch a horror movie, at the very least he would make them watch something a bit easier to stomach than most of his favorite genre tends to be. 

Finally, Kiyoomi shifts and says, “Yes.”

Miya lets out a soft  _ yay,  _ scooting over to pull Kiyoomi beneath their blanket of protection before wrapping their arms around him good and tight, like they’re trying to hold him as close as humanly possible. At first, it’s uncomfortable. At first, Kiyoomi doesn’t like it; it’s a hug, after all, and hugs are notoriously one of his least favorite forms of physical contact, just shy of ‘anything that happens after a volleyball game.’ But then, Miya drops their head onto Kiyoomi’s, smoothing soft circles into Kiyoomi’s shoulder with their thumb, humming softly as the movie’s credits begin to play, and Kiyoomi thinks that maybe he understands what it is that he’s been missing out on all his life. 

Miya moves to pull away. Kiyoomi lifts his hands, holding Miya in place. 

“Not yet,” he murmurs. 

Miya hums, smiling softly. “Okay.”

-

“So, Omi,” Miya says, draping themself over Kiyoomi’s locker as Kiyoomi changes into practice clothes. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, choosing not to respond to whatever they’re about to say. “What’re ya gonna wear to Bokkun’s weddin’?”

Kiyoomi tugs his t-shirt down over his head. “Clothes.” 

“Very specific,” Miya drawls. “Ya gotta take it more seriously than that! Ya gotta look nice, ‘n ya gotta match the color scheme, but ya can’t look so nice that ya upstage BokuAka.” 

“What in the goddamn fuck did you just say?” Kiyoomi asks, glaring at Miya. 

Miya snickers. “BokuAka. It’s Bokkun and Akaashi’s ship name. Shouyou-kun came up with it.”

“Of course they did,” Kiyoomi mutters, turning back to continue getting ready. He huffs, blowing his bangs out of his eyes and making a mental note to cut his hair soon. “Miya, can I not just wear a black tux and call it a day? Bokuto didn’t say anything about his wedding being on the traditional side of things.” 

“Well, sure, ya could wear a black tux,” Miya says, “if yer goin’ to a fuckin’ funeral! Omi-omi, yer really hopeless. Ya gotta let me style ya.” 

“No,” Kiyoomi says, slamming his locker shut and heading toward the gym.

“Please?” Miya begs. They follow close behind him, whining like a child.

“ _ No,”  _ Kiyoomi insists. “Miya, there is nothing in this world I want less than to have you of all people pick out my clothes.” 

Miya sticks their tongue out at him. 

“Put that thing back where it came from,” Kiyoomi huffs, “before I cut it off.”

The sound of the locker room door slamming behind him punctuates the end of the conversation.

-

“How did I get here?” Kiyoomi wonders aloud, standing in the middle of a boutique in the city’s shopping district. Miya is nearby, rifling through the shop’s collection of patterned blazers to find one that will go with Kiyoomi’s nicest pair of black slacks. It took everything he had to convince Miya not to try and style him an entirely new outfit, though he finally gave in to the top half of his suit after nearly a week of constant pestering. 

“Because ya love me,” Miya says, pulling a garish, purple blazer off of the rack and adding it to the growing pile in Kiyoomi’s arms. 

“I’ve never hated anyone more than you,” Kiyoomi retorts. Miya just laughs and ignores him.

“I had BokuAka send me pics of them in their suits so that I know whether or not you’ll upstage them,” they say, pulling a seemingly plain, black blazer out and tossing it on the pile. They wave, gesturing Kiyoomi over to the ties and bowties. Kiyoomi shifts uncomfortably; he’d been given strict instructions to come wearing his slacks and a black dress shirt, but he doesn’t like the way the fabric rubs up against his skin. There’s a  _ reason  _ why he never wears this stuff, and it isn’t that he doesn't think himself bougie enough to pull it off.

“Stop calling them that,” Kiyoomi huffs. Miya, as always, acts like he didn’t say anything. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. 

“Of course, it’s gonna be real hard for ya to upstage BokuAka, seein’ as the both of them are actually good lookin’ ‘n yer like—a bridge troll, or somethin’,” Miya continues. 

Kiyoomi scowls. “You do realize you’re insulting yourself, right? I may look like a bridge troll, but I’m not the one who chose to fuck me, so.”

Miya flushes bright red, glaring at the bowties in favor of responding. Kiyoomi smirks.

It takes a little while, but eventually Miya deems the stack of clothes good enough to be tried on and ushers Kiyoomi over to the dressing room. They sit down on one of the chairs outside, first telling Kiyoomi to try and piece together his own outfit. 

“I’ll help ya if ya need it,” Miya says, “but I don’t think yer a  _ complete  _ lost cause, Omi.”

Kiyoomi sighs and picks out the first combination: a velvet maroon blazer with a satin, black bowtie. He frowns at his reflection, but steps outside anyway. 

Miya looks up from their phone, their eyebrow twitching slightly but their face otherwise blank. “Whaddya think, Omi?”

Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose. “I look like a magician.” 

Miya snorts. “Yeah, ya really do. I don’t think maroon’s yer color. Next.” They wave him away.

Kiyoomi scowls and returns to the dressing room to try again, this time with a blazer with a blue bodice and black lapels. He keeps the bowtie from before. The look isn’t that bad, but again—it doesn’t feel right to him. He steps out of the dressing room, tapping his foot against the ground as he waits for Miya to finish appraising him.

“Nah,” Miya says. “Yer too borin’ for blue.”

Kiyoomi scoffs, turning on his heel to find something better. He sifts through the mound of blazers Miya had picked out, before finally he comes to stop on what he had initially assumed was plain black. Looking at it closer, he realizes that it isn’t just black—all throughout the bodice, barely-there flowers are embellished with golden thread, just enough that the jacket seems to shimmer beneath the light of the dressing room mirror. Kiyoomi hesitates before pairing it with a deep burgundy bowtie, tugging the sleeves down over his wrists as he steps out of the dressing room. He holds out his arms, secretly hoping that Miya likes this one, because he thinks this is his favorite. 

Miya looks up from their phone when Kiyoomi steps out, their eyes immediately blowing as wide as saucers. They stare, their mouth agape, as Kiyoomi fidgets and sweats beneath the harsh lights of the boutique. A pretty pink blush dusts their cheeks. Kiyoomi frowns. Are they sick? Why is Miya flushed?

“Well?” he demands. 

Miya clears their throat, finally seeming to recover from whatever routed them into an idiotic stupor. “Ya—ya look amazin’, Omi. Like—really,  _ really  _ amazin’.”

Kiyoomi flushes up to the tips of his ears. “No need to lay it on so thick. I get the picture,” he says, clearing his throat. “Can we—can we go now?”

Miya nods, their mouth still agape as they seem to drink in every inch of Kiyoomi’s appearance. Kiyoomi would give anything to know what they were thinking right then.

Kiyoomi hands all of the rejects off to Miya to return to the shelves, heading up to the counter to pay for his new blazer and bowtie. The cashier is nice, even compliments his choices and tells him it’ll look great on him before she hands him back his card. Kiyoomi nods his thanks, heading over to meet Miya near the store entrance. 

Miya is standing outside of the store, gazing around at the rest of the mall. There’s a toy store across the way with a million plushies sitting in its window, right next to an arcade where Kiyoomi can spot tens of kids wandering amongst the games. A couple walks by, their hands interlocked and swinging in between them. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Kiyoomi mutters, stuffing his hands into his pockets. 

“I’ll meet ya by the entrance,” Miya says. “Gotta piss.” 

Kiyoomi scowls. “Must you be so crass?” 

Miya just smiles at him, waving as Kiyoomi huffs and turns to walk toward the entrance of the mall. It doesn’t take him long to reach the blissful outdoors, where nobody is crazy enough to linger in the biting winter wind. But Kiyoomi revels in it, feeling the cold lull him back into a state of calm he doesn’t usually feel around Miya. Being around Miya isn’t uncomfortable, per se, but Kiyoomi spends much more time with flushed cheeks and a fluttering stomach than he considers preferable. He hopes this goes away soon. Or he dies soon. Either way, he’ll consider it a win.

“Where the hell are they?” Kiyoomi mutters, after a few minutes go by and Miya doesn’t appear. It shouldn’t take them this long to relieve themself; the bathrooms were right near the stupid boutique. 

But before Kiyoomi can go inside and look, Miya exits the mall, laden with a shopping bag they most definitely didn’t have when Kiyoomi last saw them. They wave, an easy grin on their face as they approach him. “Heya, Omi-omi. Did ya miss me?”

“Never,” Kiyoomi retorts. “What the fuck did you buy?”

Abruptly, Miya’s smile tightens. They shift slightly, lifting the bag to rest it on the palm not holding its handles. They stare down at it for a few seconds before shoving it toward Kiyoomi, fast and sudden enough that he stumbles back out of reach. 

“Warn me,” Kiyoomi huffs, snatching the bag from his companion. He pauses. “It’s for me?”

Miya nods. 

Kiyoomi frowns. The bag conveniently doesn’t have a label, and whatever’s inside is hidden by tissue paper, giving Kiyoomi no clue as to what Miya is giving him. Apprehensive, he reaches into the bag until his hand collides with something soft, something like—plush. 

“A plushie?” he asks, raising an eyebrow as he pulls it fully out of the bag. Miya nods.

“It’s—it’s a lil weasel. See? ‘N it’s got a lil flower,” Miya says, pointing to it. Kiyoomi looks down, and sees that it is, in fact, a weasel—probably a ferret—with a cute smile as it clutches a felt, white and yellow daisy between its paws. The plushie itself can’t be much longer than his hand, small enough to not be much of an inconvenience but large enough to not be easily lost. The ferret is a sleek black, with shining, plastic eyes. 

“You got me a ferret plushie,” Kiyoomi says slowly. 

“It—reminded me of ya,” Miya says. “I know it’s stupid.” 

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi interrupts. He stares down at the ferret in his hands, his heart swelling approximately thirteen times the size it was three minutes ago. “I like it. A lot.” 

Miya beams. “Really? I thought for sure ya’d think it was dumb ‘n juvenile.” 

“It’s a gift,” Kiyoomi huffs, gently replacing the ferret in its shopping bag and tissue paper home. “A gift you got because it reminded you of me. Of course I like it; I’m not an asshole.” 

“Debatable,” Miya quips. Kiyoomi shoves them.

After a few moments, Kiyoomi hums and tips his head back toward the sky. It’s a grey, overcast day; there isn’t really much to look at. “What are you going to wear to the wedding?” 

“Dunno,” Miya replies. They nudge him, grinning at Kiyoomi in a rather tongue-in-cheek fashion. Kiyoomi braces himself for whatever idiocy is sure to come. “Wanna be all matchy-matchy?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me beat you with the ferret.” 

Miya waggles their eyebrows. “Kinky.” 

“I’m literally going to kill you,” Kiyoomi threatens. 

Miya laughs. “Ah, yanno ya love me, Omi-omi. Ya could never live without my pretty face brightenin’ up yer day.”

Kiyoomi hesitates for a moment too long before he says, “I will rejoice the day you die, Miya.”

Miya notices. Miya notices everything, as idiotic as they tend to act. They shoot Kiyoomi a funny look before running their fingers through their hair. Kiyoomi tracks the motion with his eyes.

“Yanno,” Miya says, “ya can call me Atsumu, if ya want. Yer really the only person who doesn’t.”

Kiyoomi nearly gets hit by a car, tripping over his own feet. Miya laughs, reaching out to stabilize him and bring him safely back onto the sidewalk toward the train station where they’ll have to part ways if Kiyoomi doesn’t toughen up soon and invite Miya to dinner. Platonically, of course. 

Cough. 

“What? My name so ugly ya had to go throwin’ yerself into traffic?” Miya jokes, but Kiyoomi can detect the anxiety simmering beneath. 

“No,” Kiyoomi replies. “But if I’m going to call you Atsumu, then I’d better not hear another  _ Sakusa  _ come out of your mouth, got it?” 

Atsumu blinks, nodding. Kiyoomi huffs. 

“Right,” he mutters. They’re at the station now; now’s his chance. Come on, Kiyoomi, just say it already.  _ Will you come over? Want to come back with me? Let’s get dinner.  _ It’s all right there, there are so many ways he could say it, and still all he says is, “See you at practice tomorrow?”

Fuck. 

Atsumu’s face falls, just slightly. For the sake of his own heart, Kiyoomi chooses not to read into it.

“Yeah,” Atsumu mumbles. “See ya at practice, Omi-omi.”

Kiyoomi watches them start to walk away. Say it.  _ Say it, say it, say it.  _ “Hey, Atsumu?” 

Atsumu’s feet come to a screeching halt. They turn. Hope glimmers in their eyes—at least Kiyoomi thinks that’s what emotion that is. “Yeah?”

Say it. Say it.  _ Say it.  _ Kiyoomi smiles. “Thank you.” 

It’s not enough, it’s not what he really wants to say, but still—

Atsumu grins back. “Yer welcome, Omi. Take good care of it, ‘kay?”

And then they walk away, disappearing into the crowd of people at the train station and leaving Kiyoomi all alone with his aching heart and a plush ferret. 

-

Atsumu is getting really good at being around Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi doesn’t know how they do it, but it seems like any time that he’s alone or has down time, Atsumu appears, whether it’s in person or via text message. He doesn’t entirely hate it, though he does miss some of his blissful alone time. But he also knows that were it anybody else, he would’ve bitten their head off by now. He likes being alone, yes, but—

Kiyoomi thinks he likes being alone with Atsumu even more.

Kiyoomi sighs and exhales heavily, tipping his head back toward the ceiling. His still-wet hair drips quietly onto the tile floor of the locker room, where most everyone has already gone home. Kiyoomi always takes longer after endurance training days; he likes to stand under the spray of the hot water until his muscles go numb, at which point he begins moving as lethargically as an animal in hibernation. 

He hasn’t even gotten dressed yet—the cheap towel provided by the gym rests slung across his hips, keeping him from having to sit his bare ass on the cold bench. 

Someone sits down next to him. Kiyoomi frowns, cracking open an eye to see who the newcomer is, only to find Atsumu sitting at his side, their body angled toward him with their legs straddling the bench. 

“Sleepy?” they ask, grinning. 

Kiyoomi closes his eyes and chooses not to say anything. 

Atsumu hums. “I getcha. Endurance trainin’ fuckin’ sucks. But hey—at least we don’t gotta do it for another month ‘n a half! That’s always cool.” 

Atsumu didn’t dry off properly; their t-shirt is clinging to their body, damp spots revealing the tanned skin underneath. Kiyoomi swallows thickly. 

Atsumu is talking about something. Kiyoomi thinks it’s about the upcoming wedding only a week away. But he can’t focus on the words, only the way their lips move to make every word. The heat of the locker room must be getting to him; there’s no reason for him to be so drunk on the sight of Atsumu, every slope and curve of their body turning Kiyoomi to mush. 

“What was it like?” Kiyoomi interrupts. 

Atsumu stops. “What was  _ what  _ like?”

Kiyoomi looks at them. His gaze darts down, first to their chest, then to their lips, and then it lingers for a few moments before he finds their eyes again.

They swallow thickly. “Oh. That.” They pause, frowning for a few moments before they start to pick at the chipping paint on the bench. “Ya wanna know what it was like?”

Kiyoomi nods. “I don’t want to know what we did. I think it’d only make me feel—Never mind. I just want to know how it  _ felt.”  _

Atsumu pauses. “Put it this way. The sweater I was wearin’—it was new. Expensive.”

“Cashmere?” Kiyoomi guesses. Vaguely, in the distant corner of his mind—he remembers what that sweater had felt like beneath his fingertips. 

Atsumu nods, licking their lips. “I was—kickin’ myself, ‘cause it cost so much ‘n I didn’t  _ really  _ have money to blow on somethin’ like that, but—” They pause, their fingers curling slightly. “Watchin’ ya rip it off of me made it worth it.”

Kiyoomi’s mouth goes dry. “I see,” he says. 

Something charged lingers in the air between the two of them. Kiyoomi can’t really tell what it is, but a part of him longs to reach out and grab it for himself. 

“Omi?” Atsumu murmurs. 

“What?” Kiyoomi whispers, his voice a tad raspy. He turns, angling his body toward Atsumu’s. Atsumu’s fingers creep along the bench, as if they want to take Kiyoomi’s hand but don’t know how. “If ya had the choice—would ya have wanted to remember?”

They’re closer than Kiyoomi remembers them being at the start of the conversation. He knows that it’s proper etiquette to watch someone’s eyes, their whole face, when they’re speaking to him, but somehow—right now, all he can focus on are Atsumu’s lips. 

“Yes,” he breathes. 

Atsumu’s hand finally reaches Kiyoomi’s. Their other hand creeps up to take Kiyoomi’s jaw between their thumb and the curve of their index finger, angling his face down toward theirs. “I still care a lot about ya, Omi,” they murmur. “Just thought ya should know.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Kiyoomi rasps, but his body is completely pliant in Atsumu’s hold. He wouldn’t be able to resist even if he wanted to. 

“What’s there to stop us?” Atsumu wonders. They’re so close, Kiyoomi can see and count every sun-freckle on their skin, every fleck of gold in their brown eyes. An alarm sounds in the back of his mind; this is a bad idea, he knows it is, this kind of thing  _ never ends well.  _ The aftermath of the first time should be proof enough. “Everyone else’s already gone home.”

“Teammates,” Kiyoomi mutters, “shouldn’t date.” 

“It doesn’t have to be datin’,” Atsumu replies. “People fuck all the time without datin’ each other.” 

Kiyoomi shoves Atsumu away, finally mustering the strength to get away from that which immobilizes him and his stupid heart. “Damnit, Atsumu, I said  _ no.”  _

"Alright," Atsumu relents. “Yer right. I’m sorry; ya said no. I shoulda stopped there.”

“No means  _ no,  _ Atsumu,” Kiyoomi snaps, turning his back on Atsumu. He crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly feeling a lot less relaxed and floaty. He shivers, and wishes he’d had the chance to get dressed before any of this happened. 

“Yer right,” Atsumu says again. From the sound of it, Kiyoomi thinks they’ve stood up off of the bench, but he refuses to turn around and see for himself. “But, Omi—ya weren’t sayin’ no the whole time.” 

“People can change their mind,” Kiyoomi spits. “Consent doesn’t stop mattering after the first  _ yes.” _

“That ain’t what I meant,” Atsumu says. 

Kiyoomi says nothing. 

“Are ya sayin’ no cause ya really don't want to, or just ‘cause ya think ya have to?” Atsumu asks. “I guess it doesn’t matter either way, ‘cause no means no, but still. I can’t really tell if ya actually like me ‘n yer just scared, or if I’m forcin’ myself on ya.” They pause. “But I have a feelin’ ya’d kick me in the nuts if I forced myself on ya, so. It just makes me think.” They pause, knocking the toe of their shoe against the tile floor. “I’ll see ya ‘round, Omi.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even move, until after the locker room door has swung shut behind Atsumu’s retreating form, at which time he throws out an arm and punches the wall of lockers next to him as hard as he possibly can. Fuck. Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck.  _

“Why do I ruin  _ everything?”  _

The locker room does not have an answer for him. 

-

A knock on his apartment door interrupts Kiyoomi’s week-long moping session. The coaches decided to cut practice for the three days leading up to Bokuto’s wedding, knowing that most of the players are either  _ in  _ the wedding or going to the wedding and wouldn’t be giving it their all, anyway. Kiyoomi has chosen to spend these three days sitting alone in the dark with a blanket pulled over his head—one of his favorite past times, just short of being alone.

Huffing, Kiyoomi extricates himself from the blanket fort on his bed and trudges out to answer the door. It’s probably Motoya, which is why Kiyoomi blurts, “What do you want?” before he’s even fully opened the door. 

Motoya is not standing on the other side of the door. No, the person on the other side of the door is none other than Atsumu, laden with takeout bags from Kiyoomi’s favorite fast food restaurant. 

Atsumu grins, a little more muted than their usual smirk. “Hello to ya, too, Omi-omi.”

For a brief second, Kiyoomi considers slamming the door shut and pretending none of this ever happened. But he knows that even if he did that, Atsumu would just knock and knock until either of them died or Kiyoomi let them in, so he sighs and gestures Atsumu into his apartment. 

“Why are you here?” he demands, sitting down on the couch and watching Atsumu set the food out on the coffee table. 

Atsumu fidgets slightly, hesitating before they take their seat a good distance away from Kiyoomi, farther away than they normally sit. Kiyoomi furrows his brow. 

“I wanted to apologize,” Atsumu says. “For comin’ onto ya. It was—inappropriate.”

“It’s fine,” Kiyoomi says. 

“It’s  _ not,”  _ Atsumu huffs, frowning. “I’m serious, Omi, I’m really sorry.”

“And I’m serious when I say that I don’t  _ care,”  _ Kiyoomi retorts. “Why are you so bent out of shape?” 

“Because I don’t want ya to stop bein’ my friend!” Atsumu exclaims. Kiyoomi blinks, wide-eyed. Atsumu sighs, running a hand through their hair. “I just—I don’t want ya to think I’m slimy, or gross, or—dangerous. I’m yer friend, yer  _ my  _ friend, and I don’t want my stupid sex drive to ruin that.” 

Kiyoomi doesn’t say anything for several moments. He glances at the takeout getting cold on the table, but he doesn’t really feel like eating. “What do you even see in me?” 

Atsumu coughs. “Huh?” 

Kiyoomi shrugs. “It’s not like I’ve been all that nice to you. What is it about me that keeps you coming back for more?” 

Atsumu doesn’t answer for so long, Kiyoomi almost thinks they aren’t going to. But then, they turn to look at him, a perplexed expression on their face, and say, “I’m not stupid, yanno.”

Kiyoomi furrows his brow. “I didn’t say you were.” 

Atsumu pauses. “I can tell that yer not like me. Socializin’ doesn’t come easy to ya, does it? Friends, relationships—I can tell yer not used to it, ‘n ya don’t really know what to do with it. But still. Watchin’ ya go out of yer way to talk to Shouyou-kun when they’re off their game, or watchin’ ya try ‘n get Bokkun outta emo mode, or even just—watchin’ ya try yer best to pick the  _ right  _ thing to say that won’t hurt people—I can tell ya care a lot more than ya imply. It’s endearin’.”

Kiyoomi sits, processing that, for several minutes without speaking. This is the part where he explains himself, right? This is the part where he confides some of his struggles with his friend, in ways that will hopefully convince Atsumu not to leave him when he fucks up again. 

But Kiyoomi doesn’t know how to  _ do that.  _ He’s never had friends who weren’t Motoya, and he never had a real parent around to teach him the ways of the world. Nobody ever showed him how to forge relationships he wasn’t born into. Everything he’s ever learned about human beings has been through trial and inevitable error.

Kiyoomi clenches his hands into fists where they rest in his lap, bunching the fabric of his sweatpants between his fingertips. “I’m an agoraphobe,” he says. “And I’ve never—I’ve never had a relationship who wasn’t related and therefore obligated to me. I don’t—I don’t know how to talk to people. Sometimes I think it’s easier just to—not.

Atsumu says nothing, seeming to wait for Kiyoomi to continue.

Kiyoomi swallows thickly. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ll probably hurt you again. But I’m—I’m  _ trying,  _ okay? I am.” 

“I know,” Atsumu replies. “I don’t expect ya to give me any more than what ya can.”

Kiyoomi scoffs. “Don’t just—don’t just sit around and wait for me to be a good person.”

“I’m not,” Atsumu tells him. “I’m being patient with my friend, because that’s what friends do. Ya already are a good person, Omi. Why else d’ya think I’m in love with ya?”

Kiyoomi stiffens, his eyes widening. He turns, slowly, to face Atsumu, but Atsumu doesn’t even look embarrassed. “Love?”

Atsumu nods. “Against my better judgement,” they joke. “I know ‘M not s’posed to, ‘n I don’t expect ya to reciprocate. But I might as well be honest with ya. Ya may be an ass, Omi, but—so am I, so. Match made in Heaven.” 

Kiyoomi reels. Love. Miya Atsumu is in  _ love with him.  _ What does that even  _ mean?  _

Atsumu laughs. “Whaddya mean, ‘what’s it mean?’” they crow. Kiyoomi frowns. He really needs to stop unknowingly voicing his thoughts. “It means I’ve got a deep regard for ya! I care a lot about ya, Omi. More than I care about all my other friends.”

Atsumu’s reveal is earth-shaking, but somehow Kiyoomi doesn’t feel half as scared as he thinks he should. 

Kiyoomi shifts. “Do you wanna watch a movie with me?” 

Atsumu grins. “Thought ya’d never ask.”

-

Kiyoomi sighs, slouching a bit farther down in his seat. Bokuto and Akaashi’s wedding reception is virtually everything he hates in a social gathering, namely that it is both social and a gathering. Bokuto and Akaashi are off mingling with all of their guests, their arms interlocked, practically attached at the hip. Kiyoomi is happy for them, he really is, but the louder the music gets, the more his thoughts seem to race—the more turbulent the churning anxiety in his gut seems to swirl.

It doesn’t help that none of his friends seem to care about him, sitting alone at the table in the corner sipping an extra-strong cassis grape and regretting many of his life decisions that brought him to this pathetic point. Hinata is on the dancefloor, dragging their boyfriend through a million dances he doesn’t seem to want to partake in, whilst—

Wait. Is Hinata Kiyoomi’s only friend aside from Bokuto? That’s—that’s really sad. Kiyoomi chugs his drink.

“Omi,” a voice says. Kiyoomi looks up, and finds himself squinting at none other than Miya Atsumu, the person he’s been avoiding for three days. “Sittin’ all on yer lonesome?” 

Kiyoomi opens his mouth to respond, but the  _ where else would I be _ dies on his lips when he registers Atsumu’s full appearance. Atsumu is not wearing a suit to the wedding, like most of Kiyoomi’s friends are and like Kiyoomi assumed they would be. No, Atsumu came to the wedding in a—

A dress. An elegant black dress, with a low cut v-neckline and puffy sleeves, waves of tulle swirling around their legs and stopping mid-calf. Underneath the dim lighting of the reception hall, it almost seems to shimmer, as if Atsumu is a mirage. And to make matters worse, they’re wearing  _ makeup,  _ gold eyeshadow accenting the black wings around their eyes, highlighter making them glitter like they’ve been forged out of liquid gold itself. Their lips are painted burgundy, the same color as Kiyoomi’s bowtie. 

They’re  _ matching with him.  _

Kiyoomi genuinely cannot breathe. This can’t be legal.

“Somethin’ wrong, Omi?” Atsumu asks, frowning. They shift on their feet—they’re self-conscious. But what the hell could they have to be self-conscious about? They look  _ ethereal.  _

“I thought you said not to upstage the grooms,” Kiyoomi finally rasps, clearing his throat and sipping his drink to make his mouth feel a bit less like sandpaper. He must be more drunk than he thought; normally, that’s the kind of thing he keeps to himself.

Atsumu blushes. “Ah, Omi, don’t say things like that if ya don’t mean it. It’s mean.” 

“Who said I didn’t mean it?” Kiyoomi asks, unable to take his eyes off of Atsumu. Literally—every time he tries, his gaze finds its way back to the dip in Atsumu’s neckline, the way the dress hugs their hips so perfectly it makes Kiyoomi’s brain go numb.

Atsumu doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. They shift, setting their glass of bubbling champagne down on the table. “Wanna dance, or somethin’?”

“Not even a little bit,” Kiyoomi replies. Then, as if he’s never had social anxiety a day in his life, he says, “Let’s do something else.”

“Oh?” Atsumu says, blinking. “Like what?” 

Kiyoomi doesn’t answer, just takes Atsumu’s hand and drags them away from the rest of the reception, down the hall and into the coat closet. Atsumu goes easily, not even bothering to ask anymore questions. They allow Kiyoomi to pin them to the wall, pliant against him when he presses a kiss to their lips, needy and hot and lustful. 

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Atsumu breathes, pulling away for a moment to catch their breath. 

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying no?”

Atsumu’s eyes are glued to his lips. “No,” they breathe. They grab Kiyoomi by his lapels, smashing their lips against his. “Let’s do it,” they mumble. 

Kiyoomi is all-too-willing to comply, moving even closer as the two of them disappear behind the coats, the cool wall pressing against Atsumu’s back and Kiyoomi’s knee where it’s slotted between their legs. Kiyoomi’s hands wander, his fingers finding their way under the soft fabric of Atsumu’s dress, knocking off their sleeves and leaving their shoulders bare to his touch. Atsumu’s hands yank Kiyoomi’s shirt free from the waistband of his pants, digging their nails into his shoulder blades and making Kiyoomi let out an embarrassing moan that he’ll later deny.

The door opens just when Atsumu sticks their tongue into Kiyoomi’s mouth. Both of them freeze, Kiyoomi yanking away so fast that he actually feels Atsumu’s nails rip the hem of his shirt. For a long while, nobody moves. 

Then, a voice says, “Really, Atsumu?”

Atsumu cringes. “Heya, Kita-san.”

The coats part, spilling light onto their compromising position. The Atsumu-proclaimed Kita-san glares intimidatingly up at the two of them, one eyebrow raised. 

“This is a  _ weddin’ _ ,” Kita states. 

Atsumu whines. “Kita-san, don’t slut shame me; Omi’s been a prude for literally months ‘n I am  _ so horny.”  _

Kita-san is not amused. Neither is Kiyoomi, who pointedly lifts his knee to dig it into a place he knows will hurt Atsumu very much. Atsumu grunts, shooting Kiyoomi a betrayed look.

“A weddin’,” Kita repeats. “Show some  _ decency _ .”

They turn and walk away, the door clicking shut behind them as Kiyoomi works to tuck his shirt back in, the heat of the moment dead and gone. 

“Goddamnit,” Atsumu mutters. Kiyoomi glances at them. “Kita-san’s my brother’s date to the weddin’. I am literally never gonna live this down.” 

Kiyoomi snorts. “You deserve it, after calling me a prude.” 

“Ya  _ were,”  _ Atsumu insists. 

“I was  _ not,”  _ Kiyoomi retorts. “I’m new to dating and sex and everything attached; sorry if you have to be a little patient before I’m ready to fuck your brains out again.” 

Atsumu blinks. “Again?”

Kiyoomi stalls where he’s adjusting his bowtie, glancing at Atsumu out of the corner of his eye. “I might have a deep regard for you too. Maybe.” 

Abruptly, Atsumu throws their arms around him. “Omi-omi!” they wail. “I can’t believe ya really love me!” 

“Keep your fucking voice down, unless you want all of our friends to catch us in here,” Kiyoomi snaps. After a moment, he lifts his arms to reciprocate the hug, patting Atsumu’s head gently. “Your hair’s so soft.”

“Kita-san gave me their magic conditioner for Christmas,” Atsumu reveals. “I’ve never been prettier.” 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Vain.”

Atsumu hums. “Yeah,” they mumble. “But ya love me anyway. No take-backs.”

“You’re insufferable,” Kiyoomi declares once they’ve separated.

Atsumu pokes him. “But?” 

Kiyoomi huffs, swatting their hand away. Atsumu captures his hand in theirs. 

He clears his throat, averting his eyes as he mumbles, “But I—I care a lot about you anyway.”

“C’mon,” Atsumu says, their dress looking impeccable once more. “Let’s go join the others.” Their makeup is smudged, but there isn’t much that Kiyoomi can do to remedy that short of reaching out to use the edge of his thumb to fix their lipstick. A pretty blush paints their cheeks bright pink. “I’ll betcha ‘Samu’s already told everyone what Kita-san found.”

Kiyoomi groans, dropping his head onto Atsmu’s shoulder. “I need a drink.” 

Atsumu laughs. “Awh, Omi, ya should know by now—cassis grapes never end well for ya.”

-

Kiyoomi wakes in somebody else's bed for the first time in years. He sits up, feeling the sheets pool around his waist, and—

Oh, he’s not wearing any clothes. Cool.

He glances around, taking in the state of the room. His clothes from the night before are strewn around the room, including all of his undergarments. Draped over the end of the bed in a way that does not look intentional, Kiyoomi spots Atsumu’s black dress, the tulle dusting the floor. On the dresser, a stack of folded clothes sits waiting for him. The bed beside him is empty but warm, implying that Atsumu was there not long ago. 

This time, Kiyoomi remembers the night before, down to the very last detail. He’d been bitter before, that the only thing he could remember about the first time had been the very end, and that brief moment of paradise, but now that he remembers everything, he finds that—

His favorite part is still Atsumu’s sated smile after everything, their fingers reaching out to tangle with Kiyoomi’s as they drift off. Kiyoomi takes another second to remember, then steps out of the bed into the cold world beyond. He pulls on Atsumu’s t-shirt and sweatpants before padding out of the bedroom to find the person of his (begrudging) affections. 

Atsumu is curled up on the couch, nursing a cup of coffee and scrolling through their phone. A second mug sits on the coffee table, filled with black coffee. Atsumu looks up when Kiyoomi emerges, smiling softly. 

“Mornin’,” they greet. “I didn’t know if ya wanted any cream or sugar, so I left it black. Hope that’s okay.” 

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond, just collapses on the couch and wraps his arms around Atsumu’s waist, resting his head against their chest as he drifts off to sleep again. Atsumu is warm enough that Kiyoomi doesn’t even feel like he needs a blanket; he has everything he needs right here with him.

“Aw,” Atsumu mumbles, their hand finding its way into Kiyoomi’s hair. Kiyoomi hums softly, leaning into their touch. “Sleepy Omi.”

Kiyoomi hums softly. 

“I love ya,” Atsumu breathes. 

“Love you too,” Kiyoomi mutters. it takes him a second to realize—he’s never said that before. To  _ anyone.  _ It isn’t as scary as he thought it’d be. “Now shut up and cuddle me, you insufferable chatterbox.”

Atsumu laughs. “Yer wish is my command.”

Morning sunlight streams in through the gap in Atsumu’s drapes. Kiyoomi cracks open an eye, glancing up to see Atsumu dripping with gold, as if forged of daylight. Daylight, Kiyoomi thinks, and love. 

There’s a lot of complications that come with this relationship. They’re teammates, for one thing, and even though there’s no rule against inter-team relations, Kiyoomi thinks that’s just because of heteronormativity. Neither of them know what their friends will say. They can’t come out without risking their careers, not to mention a million other things he isn’t thinking of right then.

But none of that matters, in this moment. In this moment, all that matters is Atsumu’s solid chest beneath his head and their nimble fingers combing the knots out of Kiyoomi’s hair. The steady rise and fall of their chest is making him even more drowsy than he already is.

“Sleep, Omi,” Atsumu murmurs. “S’okay. I’ll be here when ya wake up.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t need to be told twice.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u to my lovely beta [ rinpanna ](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/rinpanna)
> 
> HOOOOOOO BOY HERE WE GO. V I HOPE U LOVE THIS, I POURED MY BLOOD SWEAT AND TEARS INTO THIS (ok not literally but u get the point)
> 
> i have never written sakuatsu before. this was terrifying :thumbsup:
> 
> i don't have much else to say other than,, stan rinpanna and vwritesaus for clear skin
> 
> as always, come hang out w me on tumblr @fake-charliebrown, twt @fakecharlieb, or check out my [carrd](https://fakecharliebrown.carrd.co/)


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